Trisagion
by Orion Kohaishu
Summary: "I believe in the compelling power of love. I do not understand it." - Theodore Dreiser But really, who does? Short character/relationship study - Dean x Castiel (implied relationship/ambiguous relationship/pre-relationship)
1. Dean

If there's one thing he appreciates about having Cas ride shotgun, it's that, unlike Sam, he doesn't feel the need to fill every moment of the drive with words.

Theirs is a companionable not-talking; what most would consider 'silence' filled instead with the hum of the road and the purr of the engine, a symphony of miles – and Bon Scott, singing in relative quiet from the stereo. Sam's last words before falling into an uncomfortable sleep in the back seat had been a bitchy 'god, Dean, turn it down!' like the radio was _ever_ set to a different volume and it wasn't just that music reverberated around in that big stupid head of his and made it _sound_ louder, like he thought must be true. But then Cas had almost smiled at him and he'd stopped thinking anything at all really… and had begun singing loudly and off-key along to the lyrics to discourage any future mind-reading attempts.

They're half an hour down some backwater highway passing through some middle-America land-locked state when he starts missing that constant, annoying Sam-chatter.

Because, frankly, _anything_ would be a welcome distraction from the oh-so-distracting presence in the passenger seat; not that he's really doing anything (_at all_, in fact. Dean's not sure he's actually seen the angel blink even for at least twelve miles now). It's more that Cas is, at his best, a distraction – and, at his worst, an oh-god-don't-think-about-this-now-remember-that-th ere-is-a-mind-reading-angel-of-the-lord-present-do -you-hear-me-we-are-NOT-thinking-about-this-now. He just knows, _knows_, that any minute now he's going to find his eyes sliding over to that distracting un-distraction in the passenger seat right before an unexpected turn in the road, and there's just no way he'd be able to explain that one away to Sam. Somehow, 'Well, you see, Cas was just sitting there **existing** and all' didn't seem like it would fly very far in excusing him for landing them both in the hospital.

And then his attention is sliding over again, almost against his will, only this time his apparently not-so-surreptitious glance is met by those big blue what-did-I-say-about-not-thinking-about-this-now eyes, and suddenly there's so much not-talking going on between them that it's deafening. And then because he's very much in danger of thinking about this now, he starts singling along loudly and off-key out loud as well as in his head.

And even though they are not-talking, and even though he is most _definitely_ not-thinking-about-this-right-now, he and Bon Scott are quietly singing "Up to My Neck in You" and Cas is almost smiling and he knows that he understands.

It's one of the things he appreciates most about Cas, after all: the conversation.


	2. Cas

He knows that Dean believes his faith in him to be misplaced, his loyalty born only of his angelic origins – he was created, after all, to worship: he is an Angel of the Lord, woven into being from flame and fury and fidelity, made to sing praises (_holy, holy, holy_).

He knows rage and righteousness, vengeance and veneration, cruelty and compassion. He knows songs and seclusion and servitude. He knows the nuances of every mortal language since the dawning of Creation, and the hopes and prayers of the population. He knows the flow of Time and the ebb of Eternity and the brush of the sun and the stars and the wind, and, above all, he knows Love (_holy, holy, holy_).

He does not, however, know love as the humans know it.

To the angels, Love is essence, the same as existence – Love is praises and worship and songs and sunshine, brothers and sisters and Father, body and soul and eternal.

Human love is not an emotion but **all** emotion, anger and hurt and sorrow and joy, layers of feeling, a complex tapestry of humanity with threads that rip and unravel, spider-web connections that invariably tie two people together. Love is family, is more than family, is you are mine and I am yours – love is possession and being possessed, is giving yourself and taking nothing in return and accepting what is given freely. Love is I-would-die-for-you-I-would-die-without-you, and love is living.

Castiel does not understand love.

But he believes he is beginning to.

Love is stolen glances down a silent road, almost-touches and standing-too-close, lingering looks and smoldering moments fraught with feeling. Love is shouting and laughter, is not words, though love is loud; companionable not-talking and too-much-talking all at once where nothing is ever said. Love is fine lines and friendship and family, warm nights and cold beers. Love is worry and pain, betrayal and loss, sick to your stomach because of it, sliding under your skin and planting little hooks, pulling you in all directions but always away, away from everything you understood before. Love is green eyes and a leather coat and a black car that feels like home.

And then it is singing along to the radio that says the words he cannot.

He understands song (not this one, of course, all background noise and yelling voices, harmonious he supposes, if only in its disharmony, though the sentiment is clear), and oh, he understands fear and confusion and words with no voice begging to be released.

He does not understand love, but he can feel it.

So he smiles, and he sings.

_Holy, holy, holy_


	3. Sam

Sam doesn't understand it.

Together, they are a conundrum. A question.

Dean is loud and crass and just about as human as they come. He believes in himself and in brute force and in the power of rock and roll, and worships idols and Impalas and long drives down dark roads. He lies and cheats and steals and drinks too much. He is a young man housing an old soul and hiding a scared little boy.

Castiel is silent and scary and as much time as he spends with them there's just no hiding that he's not of this world. His faith is unwavering, in his Father and his friends, and he hasn't got a moral compass so much as a moral brick road, only Oz is the afterlife and The Wizard is God. He quietly disapproves of nearly everything they stand for, and he gives up eons of angelhood for them, for Dean, drops everything and burns bridges to help them.

It's not healthy; not really.

Dean needs his daddy's approval and not an angel's, dressing up in dad's leather jacket and when that's not enough crawls inside the man he thinks he is and refuses to come out, wearing clothes that are too big until he realizes that expectations and ideas always outgrow their realities. He doesn't know what it means to care, doesn't know how to care about anyone who isn't a Winchester, and even that brand of love comes with a warning label of 'tough' right on the bottle. And he refuses to believe in a God that promises to believe in him, because the only opinion he trusts 100% is his own and damned if he believes in himself. For a Righteous Man, he's more sinner than saint.

And Castiel is a soldier at heart, in form and function. He needs law and order, a cause to fight for and a Father's word above all else; they're staggeringly alike in that regard – it seems that daddy issues span both Heaven and Earth. He cares about everything and everyone, cares so much that he's given himself infinitely and there's nothing left for himself, and somehow manages to care about Dean most of all, a creature of love content to play second-most to a full-grown little brother. He believes with every fiber of his being, believes so hard in mankind and in the Righteous Man that it will kill him, has killed him, and believes so hard it's only inevitable he'll be let down.

They're opposites of all possible sorts, pasts and presents and futures, and alike in the worst possible ways. They simply, and entirely, clash.

But their collision is a catalyst, not a catastrophe.

They are silent conversations and shared glances, eye contact that's almost physical. Dean looks at him like he's finally found a place to call home, and Castiel looks at him like he's the whole world, Heaven and Earth combined. They fight and disapprove and disagree and drive each other away, but they always come back; they come back and they smile and they stand too close, and even in a future where the whole world has changed for the worst they aren't separated until the very end. They're so intense with the other because no one else matters, not when they're together, it's just Dean and Castiel and all the ways they can tear the other apart if they choose to; it's hard not to fight with someone who's so worth fighting _for_. They run hot and cold, best friends or not speaking for weeks at a time, and even though there're no happy endings when you run with the Winchesters, he's never seen either of them happier than when they're together.

It's confusing. It's messy. It's painful to imagine and enthralling to observe. It's feeling and frustration, and 99% of the time it's more compelling than television.

It's not the kind of thing they write fairy tale romances about. It's not even Daytime Emmy material. It's hard edges and soft gazes, barbed words and magnetic attraction; it's real and it's visceral, and all-consuming. It's death and life and everything in between – they've created each other, Castiel gripped him tight and raised him from perdition and Dean caught him as he Fell and taught him how to live. It's always opposites with them, rise and fall, maker and man.

It's love, as strange as it is, and Sam doesn't understand it… but maybe he's not meant to. Maybe no one is meant to. Understanding love means applying logic and science and picking it apart, piece by piece to see how it works.

And that's the point with them, it doesn't. It doesn't work; _they_ don't work.

But they love like they live, Team Free Will, and when the odds aren't in their favor, well, maybe it's time they make their own rules.


End file.
